Ariel, by Sylvia Plath, Reviewed

Mostly incomprehensible. For me, atleast, that encloses in a nutshell the bulk and content of this overly personalpoetry. Oh, the mood of depression and despair is thick enough to be tangibleand some of the imagery even peers through the gloom in a form that I canrecognise. But much of this self-indulgent outpouring of grief, bitterness andbile is so utterly personal to the poet that, without those essential notesused by the students of literature, I find I'm lost in a morass of meaninglessreferences.
The exceptions are the poems about thebees. These, at least, I can understand and therefore appreciate. There is lifeand light and some understanding of both the insects and their keepers here.
As for the rest; I'm at a loss tounderstand the poet's reputation as foremost amongst those of her time. Whilstaccepting that poetry is necessarily a personal experience set in the form ofwords employing descriptive language and often obtuse references that make formetaphor, I do expect to be able to take something from the verse apart fromutter incomprehension. I read Dylan Thomas and know where I am and what it is I'mbeing told. I need no interpreter, no student's notes, no back history aboutthe writer. But, without such guidance, these poems are, for me, just so manywords.
If the poet intends to communicatefeeling, mood, impressions in any manner that her readers will understand, thensurely density, obfuscation and abstract reference must occasionally bow toclarity, mustn't they?
I fully understand that the disciples ofthese works and their creator will label me a philistine, an ignoramus, perhapseven a fool. In my defence, I would simply say that I read the entire anthologyand was able to comprehend around ten of the eighty pages. That the poet wasmostly living a troubled and despairing life is evident. But what she actuallymeant by the mass of the work presented here will remain a mystery to me.
I wonder if this is another of thosewriters who ranks with James Joyce and a few others as an object of admirationbecause the critics are terrified of appearing foolish should they admit tofinding the work unintelligible. I recognise that the failing may well lie withme, but I'm unable to quite avoid the impression that somehow the literaryworld has allowed itself to be fooled in much the same way as the art world hasaccepted Damon Hirst's  biologicalspecimens as works of art rather than the anatomical samples they are inreality.
Not a poet I shall read again.Disappointing and ultimately deeply unsatisfying.